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by broi



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Blow Jobs, Cum Fetish, Cum Play, Dirty Talk, Fantasizing, M/M, Masturbation, POV Theon, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Snark, Theon-centric, blushing Jon, saliva
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-16
Updated: 2017-05-16
Packaged: 2018-11-01 15:50:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10925046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/broi/pseuds/broi
Summary: Theon favours playing the deviant as much as he likes being made a whore. Jon isn't all that dissimilar. What a shock.- Theon decides to leave a present for Jon in his absence.





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**Author's Note:**

  * For [Emphysematous](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emphysematous/gifts).



> Of course, this is for Emphysematous. Could a fic like this be for anybody else, really? <3

Theon is on Jon’s bed.

This isn’t unusual. Not of late, anyway. It’s easier to use Jon’s room than Robb’s (a sure-fire, one-way carriage to getting caught) or Theon’s (typically small and a bit shit, as expected of a ward), and Jon’s room has a hearth, which keeps them nice and warm given how often they spend in there devoid of any clothing. Theon’s been on Jon’s bed so many times he’s lost count. That isn’t the issue.

Theon has never been on Jon’s bed, naked and hard as fucking iron, when Jon is still in the yard at training. 

He’s face down, his nose pressed deep in the furs and his left knee bent up towards his waist, as his right hand fists at his cock, pressed to the bed by his hip. His wrist is going a bit numb if Theon is honest, but somehow it adds to the whole sensation. He inhales deeply, desperate to suck the scent of Jon from the furs and into his own body. Gods, his cock is so _wet._ Theon grinds into the bed, hard, and moans a quiet laugh to think of the mess he’ll make of Jon’s sheets in his absence, and what Jon will do when he returns and discovers it, and how Jon’s face will darken in frustration that he’ll have to clean up, but then, _worse_ frustration that Theon had been there and done that and not _fucking_ involved him, and then Jon would arrive in a whirlwind at Theon’s chambers where by then Theon will have returned to, and slam him against the wall –

Theon groans and rolls onto his back. Only a few candles illuminate a single corner of the room. The candlelight throws a glowing warmth across Theon’s narrow hip bone, up his lithe stomach, half hidden in shadow. The smell of Jon and the angle of his cock on Jon’s bed is too much and he’ll spend like a green boy if he keeps _rutting_ like that. Obviously, spilling onto Jon’s bed and then fucking off leaving his seed for Jon to find is indeed the end goal, but Theon intends to enjoy it a bit first. Savour it. See, he’s learned things since leaving the whores alone. No more guzzling on cunt like he’s been starved of water for a week, bashing through a quick fuck as though shooting his seed is some sort of race. There’s a great beauty in drawing it out; a fine art in crafting pleasure into ebbs and flows. Jon and Robb would say they taught Theon that, but Theon would disagree. It had always been in him. He’d just had no need of it with the whores. They’re just whores. And Jon and Robb are _Jon and Robb._

He runs his thumb over the head of his cock in lazy circles, sliding the bead of pre-come over and around the tiny slit, shivering slightly to remember how Jon does it and how he likes to grip Theon nice and tightly on his shaft, just under the head, and toss him off so slowly, _so very slowly_ , almost as if he couldn’t care less if Theon comes or not. _”Fuck,_ " mutters Theon through the darkness, his hand obeying Jon’s absent commands to _speed up_ then _slow down_ , and then stop altogether, _hands off,_ and Theon complies, his cock suddenly cold and aching. 

Theon fists his fingers into the furs at his sides. His cock juts into the empty air and he writhes, fucking into nothing. Jon and Robb’s voices are at his ears, whispering their casual disgust: _”Whore. Slut. Ironborn? He fucking wishes. He’d do anything to get off, wouldn’t he? Put his cock anywhere. D’you think he’d pay us, he’s that desperate? Yeah. Pay us in his father’s gold. Too much of a wanton little boy whore to pay the iron price.”_

_No,_ thinks Theon, and wraps his left hand around his cock. Thoughts of _hostage_ and _dirty little boy_ and _slag_ punctuate how his hips buck his prick into his hand. _No. You like it when you’re in control, Greyjoy. Not when you’re being made a whore by the Stark boys._ His right hand reaches around the curve of his arse to press below his balls, teasing himself in exactly the way that Robb does when he’s getting Theon ready. Robb’s always gentler than Jon. _”That’s the difference between a nobleman and a bastard,”_ Theon had smirked once, and Jon had gripped him by the back of his neck, pinned him face down at a punishing angle, and had fucked him so hard that Theon almost blacked out when he came. 

He pushes a finger inside, which makes him wince because he hasn’t even used any oil to prepare himself. Theon’s mind shifts from Robb’s soothing fingers to Jon’s rough, bastard hands taking what they want, and Theon twists his finger cruelly inside his tight arse, gasping at the sensation. He finds his spot almost instantly, as he always does, and allows himself a low groan as he strokes it with soft, teasing prods. Robb does it like that and it drives Theon almost mad with need. Jon tends to press it, _hard,_ whilst leaning into Theon’s neck, his breath on Theon’s ear, whispering _yes. You like that. Moan. Beg. You want it. Ask me nicely_ and Theon always fucking does as he’s told.

“Yes, Snow. I need it. Make me come,” mutters Theon into the darkness, and what he doesn’t fucking expect is a fucking _reply._

 _”Theon!_ What in seven hells do you think you’re doing?”

Theon’s eyes burst open and there he is: Jon Snow, standing in the doorway, half-undressed after training and wearing a face of unadulterated horror on a field of rapidly-deepening crimson. An absurd sigil. Theon slows his racing heart as quickly as he can, as quickly as he’s able to slow his hand on his cock, and carefully, _so carefully_ , he spreads his legs wider on Jon’s bed, takes his finger from his arse, and puts it directly between his lips. As Jon gasps, Theon draws his smirk all the way up Jon’s body from his feet to his lovely, outraged grey eyes. 

“I should think it is obvious what I am doing, Snow.” 

“In my room? On – on my _bed_?” Jon drops his eyes to the floor. The poor bastard can barely get his words out. “What in the Gods is wrong with your own room?”

 _So this is the Jon I’ll get today,_ thinks Theon. _All honour and reserve._ Theon only has himself to blame for that, really. Lying wanking on Jon’s bed was always going to embarrass him, make him stammer and blush, rather than enrage him. It’s the shock of it all, really. Jon can’t cope with surprises. Call Jon a low-born bastard and you get a slap on the jaw for your trouble and a red fucking arsehole, but actually crack onto him, lasciviously wink at him, make him feel utterly desired? He doesn’t know what the fuck to do. And, truth be told, Theon enjoys playing the deviant little shit just as much as he favours being made a whore.

“Didn’t fancy coming in my own room. Wanted to come in yours.” Theon shrugs. “So I did.”

“Have you fucking _come_ on my furs?”

Theon smirks. “Sadly not. I was rudely interrupted.” He resumes a decent speed on his cock, coughs out a throaty laugh. “Although, give me a minute. I fear it shan’t take long with you pouting so prettily like that.”

“Theon—”

“ _Jon._ ” Theon spreads his legs even wider still, bending his knees up so his feet are flat on the bed. His arse is wholly exposed now and Jon can’t take his eyes off it. Just as the bastard licks his lips, Theon mirrors his movement and does the same to his own. “You’re going to tell me to stop?”

“I – it’s just – no, I just—”

“You are fucking beautiful, Snow.”

“Stop it.”

“You are.” With his free hand, Theon pulls his arse as open as he can manage. “Look what you do to me.”

“I – I said, stop it—”

“No.”

Theon’s eyes rake over Jon’s body again, taking in the curve of his bicep, the broad, bare shoulder over which Jon has slung his loose undershirt. Fuck, Theon would do anything to smell that shirt in this moment. Snow would have been training for hours with that shirt on under his leathers, stuck to his sweat-soaked skin. Theon shudders, gripping his cock tighter, and Jon stiffens so visibly that Theon can see his whole body tense even from over the other side of the room. He is so rigid, so overwrought.

Theon’s voice is low, throaty. “ _Come here, Snow._ ”

“How – how can you lie there like that? Doing that – without a single care?”

“I said, come here. I shan’t ask again.”

It is really quite sweet, how obediently and how tentatively Jon totters over and sits on the edge of his own bed as though trespassing somewhere he shouldn’t be. It’s like he’s got a split fucking personality. One minute he’s drilling the living daylights out of Theon’s arse whilst gripping Robb about the throat, and the next he’s all head-bowed and overawed, cowed like an admonished child.

“Do you know how beautiful you are, Snow?” Theon whispers. His hand slows on his cock to a lazy twist. Jon shakes his head, and Theon notices tiny beads of sweat blooming at his hairline. A glance to Jon’s groin confirms how uncomfortable he probably is. “You are so beautiful. So fucking beautiful. It’s okay. You can unlace.”

Jon’s hands fumble at his breeches and after a muttered curse he manages to free his cock with a relieved sigh. Theon runs his hand through Jon’s hair – his lovely, _lovely_ hair – and grins as Jon’s breath hitches at his touch. 

“I’m going to ask something very dishonourable of you now, Snow.”

Jon’s eyes widen. “Wh – what?”

“I’m going to ask you to finger my arse until I come.” 

“ _Theon_ \--“

Theon shrugs. “Or I could just tell you to do it. Either way, we both know what the outcome will be.” 

Of course, Jon’s muttering words like _honour_ and _wrong_ and _should not_ but his greedy little fingers are already reaching towards Theon’s hole, pressing and probing. Theon snorts a laugh.

“Snow. Preparation, for fuck’s sake. Come on, pretty boy. Make it good.” 

Theon’s glad Jon sucks his own fingers without having to be told because fuck, what a picture that makes. Jon’s always had fantastic lips. Made by the fucking old Gods and the new simply to suck cock. 

“If you behave, Snow, I’ll let you taste my prick.” Theon’s hands are in Jon’s hair again, and he twists his head to get his lips, his wet fingers, near Theon’s palm. “Ah. All in good time. You’ve got to earn it first.”

Jon nods silently, and removes his fingers from his mouth. A wet string of saliva follows his hand down to run two digits up along Theon’s arse, rubbing gently at his opening, prising his way inside. Theon moans in affirmation. “Yes, Jon. Gentle, like Robb does it. You’re so fucking good. Oh – don’t go so red. Learn to – ah! – learn to accept a bit of praise now and again.”

“I’m – it’s nothing special.”

“I’m the one getting off on the end of your fingers, Snow. I think I’ll be the one to judge what’s special and what’s not.” Quite utterly deliberately, Theon wriggles down onto Jon’s fingers and groans, laughing when Jon looks at him, horrified. “ _Yes._ Just there. Get a second in. You know how I like it.”

“I know how you like it,” mutters Jon, and dutifully a second finger joins the first. Many things can be said of Jon Snow, but failure to fulfil a job properly is not one of them. Without warning, one of Jon’s fingers grazes the spot that drives Theon mad and he bucks into his hand with a gasp, every muscle in his arse and thighs contracting. Jon directs his bashful smile to the ground, which won’t do. 

“Look at me, Snow,” breathes Theon. “It’s _you_ doing this to me. It’s you making me squirm like this – ah, fuck! Again. Do that again.”

“This?”

“Yes. _Yes._ ” Theon’s back arches completely of its own volition, and if it were possible to spread his legs any wider, he would. Fuck, he wishes he could make Jon angry enough to fling his fucking thighs behind his head and pound his gaping arsehole until he cries, but there’s no chance of that – not tonight, with Jon in this mood. All Theon can hope is that he makes Jon so fucking uncomfortable that his cock will simply need to be breathed on by the end of it all to get Jon to spend. “Deeper. More. You’re so good. Such a good boy. Suck my cock, Snow. Go on. Swallow it. I want it dripping. I want your fucking saliva to run down my balls and into my arse. I want you to stretch me open. You’re such a perfect cocksucker. Such a well-behaved boy—”

And then Theon’s cock is in the back of Jon’s throat and Jon’s third finger is in his arse and fuck, Theon is in absolute bliss. He weaves a hand through Jon’s hair, tugging it loosely just as Jon likes it. Jon responds with a deep moan that shudders through Theon’s cock and he can’t help the erratic, juddering thrust that erupts suddenly from him, making Jon gag.

“Sorry,” breathes Theon as Jon surfaces to catch his breath.

“No. I liked it,” says Jon, his lips glistening in the candlelight, before they tighten around the head of Theon’s prick again and the length disappears into Jon’s willing mouth. Theon tries to keep his movements small and careful, but the more Jon twists his fingers in his arse, the more Theon writhes and squirms into Jon’s throat. Jon’s moaning and huffing, murmuring “mmf!” every few seconds, and Theon wonders what it would be like to really _choke_ him with his cock, just like Robb likes having done to him, and what would happen to them if they were ever caught, and the look on Lady Catelyn’s face to see her precious son fucked by the bastard and the ward, or perhaps another day, another situation…Sansa’s horror at the sight of her lord brother’s cock disappearing up the arse of the Ironborn prince she wondered if someday she might marry, defiled and degraded, his mouth occupied by the bastard’s prick, no more than a wanton, slutty whore—

“Jon.” Theon speaks with difficulty, his words broken with barely-controlled pants and gasps. “Get ready. Yes. Fuck. Oh – oh _fuck_ , good boy, there you go—”

And Jon _is_ such a good boy, because just as Theon spends in the back of Jon’s throat, he presses with confidence on that brilliant spot up Theon’s arse, and Theon is coming, and coming, and Jon – so good, so fucking _good_ \- doesn’t recoil, doesn’t spill a drop, doesn’t gag: he just takes it all, all of Theon’s seed, all of his thrusts and jerks and squirms, until Theon exhales a long, moaning sigh and finally stills, head thrown back and hair stuck in a wet slap to his sweaty forehead, completely and utterly spent.

Theon opens an eye to the sight of Jon sucking his fingers clean, wiping a hand across his mouth. He smiles bashfully at Theon, who actually smiles back – smiles, not smirks. “Well done, Snow. Without a shadow of a doubt, you are the best cocksucker in the North. Don’t tell Robb I said that. He’ll probably cry.” 

“You liked it, then?”

“Nah. It was pure coincidence I came like the fucking rush of the Trident down your throat.”

“Shut up,” says Jon, through a blushing smile. 

“Snow. What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Theon nods at Jon’s crotch. Really, he could be a funny little thing on the days he hasn’t got the rage driving his prick.

Jon frowns, confused. “Putting my cock away?” 

“And why the fuck would you put your cock away? Have you come in your breeches?”

A flush of blushing red. “Of – of course not.”

Theon does smirk at Jon then, because he is so painfully coy that it’s delicious to torment him. Though, Theon wouldn’t really call it tormenting. There’s a great beauty in drawing the pleasure out. A fine art. “Then get your breeches off, love,” Theon mutters, leaning into Jon’s mouth, tasting himself lingering still on Jon’s tongue. “And spread your legs. Your turn.”


End file.
